


Por Amor De Muerte

by sweetNsimple



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Asexual Character, Asexual Cisco, Death, Death is not a sad thing, Loosely inspired by a Youtube CGI short horror film, M/M, Out of Character, Romance, Undertaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7945996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetNsimple/pseuds/sweetNsimple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever played Mafia?<br/>It’s a card game.  Maybe Mafia doesn’t sound familiar, but it’s the same as Werewolf...  </p>
<p>The Undertaker is much like a mafia member in Mafia, except they are nothing alike.  The Undertaker does not cause death, but is present for death.  The Undertaker is the being who removes the soul from the body as the last breath escapes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Por Amor De Muerte

Ever played Mafia?

It’s a card game.  Maybe Mafia doesn’t sound familiar, but it’s the same as Werewolf.  A group of friends get together with a deck of plain solitaire cards.  Each friend picks a card – except for the moderator – without telling anyone else what they have.  After that’s all done and over with, the moderator becomes a storyteller.  “It’s a lovely day in the village,” the moderator might begin.  “The Healer has saved a child’s life, two people are deeply in love, and there is still no one in our small town who believes the psychic.  Well,” the storyteller might go onto say, “it _was_ a lovely day.  But now it’s time for everyone to go to sleep.  The moon is coming up over the horizon and the psychic is still certain that we’re all going to die in the night.  Just a normal evening in our small village of Whyyounolikeme (the name of the village, like the story itself, is subject to the creativity of the storyteller).  Now, everyone, close your eyes and go to sleep.”

And while everyone closes their eyes and puts their heads down, feigning sleep, several things happen:

The person who has the psychic card (possibly a joker, maybe an ace) stays awake and watches everyone else.

The storyteller tells the two mafia – or werewolf – members (who have kings) to wake up and choose their victims.  The bad guys will each quietly point at someone else to “kill” in the dead of night.  The two bad guys do so.

The storyteller tells the bad guys to go back to sleep.

Next, the storyteller “wakes up” the healer.  The healer, with no knowledge of who the bad guys have “killed”, points at one person at random to save with the vain hope that it is, in fact, one of the people that the bad guys have marked for death.

The healer puts their head back down when the storyteller tells them to.

The storyteller will wake everyone up with something like, “And it is morning!  Wow, what a night.  A horrible, gruesome night.  Fred died!  It was brutal.  Someone in this peaceful little village isn’t so peaceful anymore and they broke into Fred’s house and just got rid of him.  Wow, Fred, what did you do, huh?  Making peaceful villagers so angry.  But the good news is…  Alice survived!  The healer (whoever they may be) saved her life from a second mafia member!  You’re going to be okay, Alice.”

And then, after this announcement, the group – or village members – have to try and guess one of the mafia members.  Once they have successfully blamed a group member, the group member reveals their card.  Usually, it is not the actual killer and an innocent group member is killed by the village.  Worse yet, it may be the psychic, healer, or one of the Cupid’s couple (which are two members who have, say, the Queen of Hearts; if one is killed, the other is also killed).  Either the group successfully guesses who both killers are, or the bad guys eliminate the villagers, two by two, one by one, until there is no one left.

The game is essentially guesswork, is the basic gist of this very long analogy.  Each member is aware of the fact that there are killers – plural – amongst them.  They simply have no idea who the killers might be. 

This is one of the best analogies of describing Central City.  Everyone is aware of that there are at least several Undertakers within their city boundaries – as there are Undertakers in only several large cities around the world to the chagrin of those who live in said large cities (as mortals believe).  They just do not know who the Undertakers are.

And that is why Central City as a population is extremely paranoid.

The Undertaker is much like a mafia member in Mafia, except they are nothing alike.  The Undertaker does not cause death, but is present for death.  The Undertaker is the being who removes the soul from the body as the last breath escapes. 

The Undertaker is not Death itself, is not the car accident or the fatal fall, the stabbing or the shooting; however, like with everything humans have come to fear, the Undertaker has been confused with these events.

If anyone knew the actual identity of the Undertakers of Central City, there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that they would attempt to answer the longest living question about the dark race of being that looks so much like themselves:

Can they die?

Everyone fervently hopes the answer to be this:

Yes.  Yes, they can.

~::~

Undertakers are the origin of the popular saying, “The shadow knows”.

This is because it is believed that when an Undertaker walks on a sunny day, the shadow they cast reveals a large pair of wings the span of which is at least three times the length of the Undertaker. 

This is true.  However, Central City has been caught beneath perpetual storm clouds for years now, which makes the overall atmosphere positively gloomy.  There are stories of bright, sunny days almost two decades ago and the weather forecast consistently promises that by the afternoon, _this_ afternoon, _tomorrow_ afternoon – the sun will come out. 

No one watches the weather forecast because the truth of the matter is that the weather is largely supernatural and everyone has come to recognize this as a side effect of having Undertakers present.  Every city with _confirmed_ Undertaker activity has always been blanketed with storm clouds. 

Central City is not known for their produce export for obvious reasons.

Or their great beach days.

Or for being happy.

Gloomy.

Central City is known for being gloomy: The weather and the people.

Some individuals are a spot of sunshine all by themselves, though, and they radiate with their own internal sunshine. 

Ironically, two such individuals are Undertakers. 

One of them has just revealed himself to his lover of two years.

His lover is dying.

“You’re dying,” Barry Allen says to Leonard Snart, his lover of two years. 

And Leoanrd is dying.  He is shaking and pale and bleeding out.  There is a spike of timber sticking out of his abdomen from where he crashed through the rapidly debilitating floor of a blazing apartment complex.  His slippery red hands grasp the spike, but he neither pulls nor pushes on it.  The flames are coming for them.

He stares up at Barry with eyes full of pain, fear, and betrayal.

There is some love as well.

Barry smiles and it is purely sincere.  There is no fear in him.  There is no pain.  There is no betrayal.

Barry is all love for Leonard Snart, and his hand gently caresses Leonard’s cheek.  He hushes his lover and smooths his thumb over Leonard’s bottom blue lip.  “It’s going to be okay,” Barry tells Leonard.

“You’re an Undertaker,” Leonard tries to say.  What actually comes out is a grunt and a whimper of agony.  In his mind, which is surprisingly sharp (and also jagged) at the moment, he churns over several facts:

Barry Allen and his parents, Henry and Nora, arrived in Central City exactly twenty-one years ago when Barry was a very small child.

Exactly twenty-one years ago, the storm clouds came.

Exactly twenty-one years ago, the crows crowded Central City – the familiars of Undertakers.

He has never seen Barry’s shadow, no matter where they have been.

Barry Allen volunteers with Central City Hospice and is constantly at the side of the dying and dead, gently assisting them in their transition from life to what comes next. 

Leonard had assumed that his lover was simply a bleeding heart.

Everything makes sense now.

Barry does not seem concerned with that he has just revealed himself to Leonard.  He does not explain himself, his actions, or his origins. 

He pulls off his coat and smiles at Leonard, all love.

He lays down beside Leonard, putting a hand over his struggling heart, all love.

He kisses the corner of Leonard’s chapped lips, all love.

The fires crackle and approach, all heat.

Barry does say this:

“I’m glad that I’m here with you.”

Leonard wants to say that that is disgusting, that this is disturbing, that he wants Barry to _get the Hell away from him_ …  Let him die in agonizing, horrible peace.

He says none of this, like how Barry has said very little, and sighs instead.  His head lists toward Barry’s and his lips seek a kiss because that is familiar and comforting.  Barry easily delivers his mouth to Leonard’s and Barry is…

Cool.

Not searing hot as he usually is, not as uncomfortably warm as he usually runs, but cool.  Leonard thinks, for a moment, that it must be his imagination.  He is the one who is cool, who is cold and becoming colder.  And the fire, the hungry fire swallowing debris and floorboards as it pulls itself closer to the two.  The fire is hot, but Barry is cool.

He pulls away for only a brief second.

Barry’s face is losing color.  His lips are turning blue.  His chest labors. 

Barry smiles, full of love.

“I love you,” Barry says, and the truth ringing in his words like wedding bells, roaring like the waves crashing on the shore, is impossible to deny.

Barry is an Undertaker.

Leonard is dying.

Barry loves Leonard.

Barry also dying.

Leonard’s hands – heavy, limp, fall from the spike.

Barry is wheezing, each desperate inhale audible and every exhale a challenge.  He, with maximum effort, feebly wraps an arm around Leonard and closes his eyes.  The gesture is familiar.

It’s just like going to sleep at night, Leonard realizes.  He focuses on Barry and his pain fades away.  The cold of his imminent demise and the flare of the rapid fire does not matter.  The broken floorboards and support beams that he rests upon do not register.

This is his bed, which is large and soft and often goes half-unused as Barry will all but pile himself on top of Leonard instead of sticking to his side of the mattress.  Barry cannot pile himself on top of Leonard right now for obvious reasons.

Barry is close, though, and his legs drag heavily over Leonard’s lap.  He is hardly breathing now.

Leonard is also hardly breathing.

“I love you,” Barry whispers again, almost too quiet to hear over the roar and snicker of the inferno.  Leonard feels the ghost motions of his lover’s lips – the Undertaker’s lips – against the shadow of his jaw and his eyes fall contently shut.

He draws on every last iota of strength he has to say, “I –”

The Undertaker is not the cause of Death, but an effect of it.  The Undertaker does not murder, but simply claims.

Catch.

And then release.

The body is a cage that very few people have come to learn to unlock for themselves.  Those who have learned to unlock their own cages have mastered astral projection, a practice that a large majority of society fails to recognize as a true occurrence.  For that large majority, there are Undertakers, who have the skeleton key to unlock every physical cage of flesh. 

But does that mean that many souls never leave their bodies if there are so few Undertakers?  Or do Undertakers have special powers to help them transport from place to place?

Fun Fact: Barry Allen was always late to work, but he was always first on the scene with victims who have been mortally wounded.  Oh, but that was simply a coincidence, surely.  Oh, but surely, it was not.  How could he move so fast then?  Well.  What a question. 

Perhaps those wings in the shadows were not just a fun secret. 

Fun Fact: The speed of darkness is the same as the speed of light. 

Fun Fact: The people are misinformed.

There are Undertakers everywhere in every profession in every town.  Even in the sunniest villages on earth, at least one Undertaker dares to trek. 

Oh, but how could they not notice the wings?

The wings in the shadows that fan across the ground and the familiar crows perched at every corner of civilization – how could these things have gone ignored?

Well.

Who doesn’t ignore the things their minds simply are too terrified to acknowledge?

~::~

Here is a fun fact about Undertakers:

They have half a soul.  The half soul they have is what they inherit from their mortal parent.  Their parent who is an Undertaker also has only half a soul, and so does not have enough of a soul to give in order for their young to live and grow; instead, the Undertaker gives to their newborn the Skeleton Key.  It is very much like a soul, except it is not a soul at all.  It is insubstantial like a soul, however, and is housed within the newborn like a soul. 

It is not alive, though, and it does not grow.  It is like a GPS; it is drawn toward others, the dying and the dead.  It is a compass pointing toward a mortal’s last gasping breath.  It is the touch of an Undertaker’s hand that unlocks the mortal body and allows the soul to peacefully drift away so that it may continue on with what comes after death.  Rebirth?  Rest?  Judgement?

The soul knows.  The Undertaker does not.

The Undertaker does not ask the soul.  This is not a social greeting.

The point is that the Undertaker has half a soul and a Skeleton Key.

No one can live or die with half a soul, though.  Not even an Undertaker.  This is a dilemma.

And so begins the Undertaker’s journey to find a soul to complete their own.  They do not steal, they will not steal, and they cannot steal, another’s soul. 

This is the Soulmate Theory, that there are two or more individuals who spiritually complete one another.  Except this is true.

Nora and Henry, for instance.

Barry was raised in a very loving home.  He was a very happy child.

One night, a man broke into their loving home and stabbed his loving mother to death in the dining room.  The man ran off as his mother screamed in pain and fear. 

Henry found her, gasping for breath, and told Barry, with love, with tenderness, to wait five minutes before calling the police. 

“You know what?” Henry had said, smiling.  “Go back upstairs and get a good night’s sleep.  You’re going to begin a whole new part of your life soon.  You should get rested up, kiddo.”

He had ruffled Barry’s hair, laid down beside his mother, and died peacefully with her, their hands holding.

Even his mother had been smiling.

Barry was raised to be familiar with and kind to Death.  Barry has never personally met Death, but he knows Death to be real and merciful. 

Barry did not cry.  He did not rebel.

He felt cheated, certainly.  He was young and he wanted his mom and dad.  But it was not an ache of a child who understood that he would never see his parents again because they no longer existed, but the ache of a child who knew that his parents had gone away for a little while and that he would see them again someday. 

After their deaths, he had thought about what it would be like to perish with the other half of his soul.

It was the only way an Undertaker could die.

He thought it would be romantic.

He thought it would be with Iris.

It was not with Iris.

It was, however, romantic.

At least, he believed it to be romantic.

His lover of two years, saving his best friend from an inferno.  Bravely pushing a child to safety before the floor collapsed beneath him and tangled him in a web of burning wood.

His lover, a hero.

Barry had not a single regret as he laid next to his lover in the blazing flames.  His touch soothed away Leonard’s agony.  He did not feel the fires lick at him, hungrily testing the layers of his mortal cage. 

He felt Leonard’s heartbeat against his hand, fading, a lullaby coming to an end.

He felt Leonard’s soul swaying, like a gentle ocean current, against his palm, ready to leave.  Content.

Loving.

Leonard, who had been a thief and a killer, had never admitted in life to the true depth of his feelings for Barry.

Barry had not minded.  Leonard had not known, but Barry could _feel_ Leonard’s love like a summons.  Like hot chocolate settling in his belly on a winter’s day.  Like that first splash of cold water in the morning, revitalizing and refreshing.

Leonard, in death, spoke freely.  Barry, in death, listened.  His hand on Leonard’s chest freed the soul from the cage and the soul flowed knowingly into Barry’s body, like any soulmate would know to do. 

Barry’s half-soul was weighed down by the Skeleton Key.  Too small, too immortal to escape the cage, Barry’s half-soul eagerly blended with Leonard’s ragged and battered spirit. 

It was, in essence, a rather tattered looking soul. 

A Frankenstein soul, perhaps.

Here’s a Joke:

What did the battered spirit say to the half-soul?

_What took you soul ong?_

Don’t get it?

That’s okay.  It only half makes sense.

Barry Allen and Leonard Snart – the bodies, anyway – turned to ashes in the fire.  Four others were grievously injured, but would heal in time.

Many people mourned.

Some people did not.

Cisco Ramon stands in front of the search light Harry Wells is wielding, blinking into the brightness.

“Why do you have a search light in the lab?” Cisco asks.  (It is impertinent to know that Cisco is a mechanical engineer for S.T.A.R. Labs in Central City, one of the leading research facilities in the United States and abroad, and that he is – was – also one of Barry’s closest friends.  He and Barry both volunteered with Hospice.  Cisco also delighted in being the candy striper at Central City Hospital that continuously escaped supervision to wander into the intensive care and trauma units.  Suspicious?)

It’s a good question.  They definitely did not have a search light in the lab yesterday and Cisco does not understand why there would be one on S.T.A.R. Labs property to begin with as emergency backup generators can and will provide sufficient light in worst case scenarios.

Harry’s ice blue eyes claim him.

“Why do you have wings?”

“Ah,” Cisco says.  His wings of shadow stretch across the walls.  “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.  A lot of people told me that you’re a genius.  I was really starting to worry.”

(It may also be impertinent to know that Harry is Cisco’s boss and is, in fact, a bonified genius.  Cisco cares for neither of these things.)

“Everyone else is crying over Barry,” Harry says.  “Everyone but you.”

“I’m familiar with Death,” Cisco answers.  “I’m not closeminded like you normal people.”

“You kissed me,” Harry hisses.  “Am I marked for death now?”

(Cisco does, actually, regularly doubt that Harry is a genius at all.)

Cisco snorts and rolls his eyes.  “So you clearly have some misconceptions about what an Undertaker does.  No, you idiot – I kissed you because I like you and you complete me.”

“Flattering,” Harry says, not sounding at all flattered.

“I haven’t even started flattering you yet,” Cisco claims.  He saunters around the search light into Harry’s space.  The older man does not back down, does not move, but stares directly at Cisco.  His heart, when Cisco puts a hand over it, trills.

His soul, when Cisco listens to it, hums.

Harry sings for Cisco without saying a word.

“You want flattery?”  He leans up.

Despite the harsh cut of Harry’s jaw, the tension in his shoulders, he eagerly gives into Cisco’s kiss.  He throws the searchlight down on the nearest table and caresses Cisco’s back, in search of the wings he cannot see.

He will find that he cannot feel them either.

Cisco pulls the barest inch away, scrapes his teeth along Harry’s throat.  Harry sighs, a long, pleased sound.

“Flatter me,” Harry deadpans.  It’s a challenge.

“When you die,” Cisco says.  “I’ll die too.”

“I never took you for a fan of Shakespeare,” Harry drawls.  “ _Romeo and Juliet_?”

“Not even,” Cisco denies.  “Unless you’re an underage teenage girl and you happen to hide it _really_ well?  Am I Leonardo DeCaprio?  Can’t be, I’m not white enough.  You’re too old.”

“Hah.”

“Definitely not _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Cisco states.  “This is our own story.”

He worries his teeth on Harry’s collarbone.

“I thought you were asexual?” Harry chokes.

“I like that look you’re getting on your face right now.  I mean, I _really_ like it.  As long as _you_ keep _your_ hands above the belt, well…”  Cisco smiles wickedly.  “Prepare to suffer for the good of suffering.”

“That makes no sense.”

“That just means I’m not trying hard enough.”

His wings, in the shadow cast by the tossed aside searchlight, enfold Harry.

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by the CGI animated short film "The Blackwater Gospel" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGzghUQRVk8).


End file.
